


Fear

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 01:27:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10866180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Erestor catches Glorfindel in a moment of vulnerability.





	Fear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephers/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for ephers’s “2. “Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry” Glorfindel/Erestor” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The fact that Glorfindel is absent from breakfast isn’t necessarily a bad sign—there are plenty of days where he forgets his schedule entirely, and can be found either sparring in the yard or still fast asleep in his quarters. As both the twins are currently away and a newly-returned Estel was in attendance, it seems unlikely that Glorfindel is elsewhere at practice. So Erestor carries a silver tray into the upper hall, laden with fresh bread and cinnamon-covered slices of apple. A glass of clear water is precariously balanced in the middle. Erestor doesn’t bother to knock when he reaches the door; he’s never once been denied entry to Glorfindel’s quarters.

The room inside is soft with morning light, the windows thrown wide and the candles unlit. Erestor carefully closes the door behind himself and shifts the tray back to both hands, carrying it for the nightstand. He expects to find a lump under the covers, but instead, Glorfindel sits atop them. Still dressed in the night’s trousers and loose tunic, Glorfindel is propped against the pillows. His hand is over his face, and as Erestor wanders nearer, he discovers why.

Glorfindel lowers his palm, revealing tear-slicked cheeks, and lets out a little sob. The sound instantly freezes Erestor, horror clenching his heart. He tightens his grip before he can drop the tray, and then he hurriedly moves to set it down. It takes up the entire nightstand, and for once, Erestor doesn’t linger to arrange it neatly in place. Instead, he slips wordlessly atop the mattress, and he opens his arms wide, drawing Glorfindel into them.

Glorfindel all but lunges at him. Glorfindel’s arms, far more powerful than his will ever be, wrap thickly around him. Glorfindel squeezes him close and burrows into his shoulder, sniffles wetting Erestor’s robes. Erestor lifts a hand to rub soothing circles across his back. Erestor murmurs quietly, “Please, do not cry. I cannot stand to see you cry.” It breaks him every time. It happens too often, though it only comes a few times a century. Glorfindel sniffs.

Then Glorfindel slowly detangles, straightening again, and Erestor cups his face to thumb away the tears. Glorfindel tries to smile—a bitter, sad little thing—and says, “I am well.” 

Obviously, that isn’t true. It _should_ be. As far as Erestor knows, he returned from the rescue of the halflings without a scratch, much to Erestor’s immense relief. But now and then, whether brought on by anything or not, Glorfindel burst in memory of the olden days. Even Elrond can’t heal him of his own mind. It can’t be helped, and Erestor waits patiently until Glorfindel wilts and admits, “Well... it is only those black rides... I had so hoped to see the world free of Morgoth’s terror, but it seems his legacy will always live on. And if Imladris is to fall...”

Erestor sternly cuts in: “It will not.”

Ignoring him, Glorfindel whispers, “I could not save Gondolin. And I will not be able to save Imladris either.”

“You cannot save everyone.” Glorfindel winces, and Erestor drops his hands from Glorfindel’s face to find his fingers and hold them tight. Glorfindel glances down at them. Erestor insists, “You have done more than enough.”

Glorfindel opens his mouth, but the first syllable comes out broken, and it cracks, dying away. He doesn’t look as though he believes it, though there are still songs sung of his great deeds. Erestor has them all memorized. Glorfindel runs a slow, nervous tongue along the bottom of his mouth, and then he shakes his head, tossing his golden mane, and mutters, “It is the thought of losing _you_ that terrifies me most.” He clings tightly to Erestor’s hands in return, while Erestor dawns a gentle smile.

“I am no warrior,” he reminds his lover, “nor have I ever been. I have never ridden to battle in my life, and I know no more of how to swing a sword than what end to hold. I will not learn now; my place is in a council. I am more than safe.”

“And I am glad of that,” Glorfindel says, though he looks unconvinced. “My heart could not have taken loving another soldier. ...But the council could still fall...”

“Not with you to guard it.” To punctuate the point, Erestor lifts to kiss Glorfindel’s forehead. He stays a moment longer than he needs, trying to spread his warmth and surety. He wants his love to permeate right into Glorfindel’s body, to be carried like a shield. As he pulls away again, Glorfindel’s long lashes are down over his eyes, and a thin smile has fallen to his lips. Erestor pecks the corner of them and murmurs, “Come, now, do not be sad. If you weep over peace, then the darkness has surely won. You must hold your head up high and enjoy the day. For I came with good news to accompany your meal: the halfling lives still and awoke this morning, entirely thanks to your protection. There is hope left.”

Glorfindel sighs. It lets the air out of him, though he’s still stronger than he seemed when Erestor first came into the room. He mutters idly, “I do not feel a great warrior.”

“That is because you have not had your breakfast yet,” Erestor quips, and he’s pleased to see the laughter that flitters into Glorfindel’s eyes. Deeming it safe to do so, Erestor leans over to collect the tray, and he brings it now to Glorfindel’s lap, where he adds, “...But if you wish also to be held, then know that I am here for you. And I will hold you, or feed you, or love you even if all else should fall.” He plucks up a piece of apple from the tray, holding it out towards Glorfindel’s mouth. 

Glorfindel dodges it to kiss him, then retracts to bite it away and lick the cinnamon from Erestor’s fingers. And soon, Glorfindel’s bright as the sun again.


End file.
